


What Do I Do (With A Love That Won't Sit Still)

by keycchan



Series: Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (A Man After Midnight) [2]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Eliot Gets Some Owies And Quinn's Not Happy About It, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Quinn Runs From His Feelings But His Feelings Have A Moped, like. very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:07:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29899488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: “Hey,” Eliot says, smiling sheepishly in Quinn’s doorway, covered head to toe in scuffs and blood, right eye sealed over with how much of it is running from a gash in his brow. He looks like he’d made a dramatic re-enactment of Carrie in an alleyway on a cheap, violent budget. “... You hungry?”Quinn replies by grabbing him by the shirt collar and yanking him inside.-Eliot has a shitty idea for a snack. Quinn's not impressed by it. There really isn't much else to it.
Relationships: Mr. Quinn/Eliot Spencer (Leverage)
Series: Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (A Man After Midnight) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198415
Kudos: 17





	What Do I Do (With A Love That Won't Sit Still)

It’s three weeks and some change when Quinn’s phone rings. It makes him raise a brow. He doesn’t really have a line of amicable acquaintances with his number, let alone friends, so it’s definitely not something he’d expected. It could be anything, really. It could be a job offer, or a stalker, or one of the many dozens of people who want Quinn buried with a stake through the heart, or, god, even worse — it could be a telemarketer.

So Quinn picks up the phone primly from where he’s perusing a stack of takeout menus and coupons, holds it to his ear, and says: “Hi, thank you for calling Subway: where the food’s so fresh, it tastes you back. Are you placing an order today?”

_ “... What the hell?” _

“Eliot,” Quinn says, tossing down the Subway voucher in his hand and ignoring the way his voice seems to tilt up happily without his permission. “What may I do you for?”

_ “What were you even  _ —  _ you know what, forget it. You busy? Are you home?” _

“No and yes respectively,” Quinn answers. “Why?”

_ “... You hungry, by any chance?” _

“Uh,” Quinn says, glancing back at the sad Subway voucher sitting forlorn on his kitchen table. “That depends. Will you bitch at me if I tell you I was about to order takeout?”

A grunt over the line that Quinn can’t decipher. And then,  _ “It ain’t like I have a thing against takeout, okay, but  _ —  _ No, I mean… are you  _ hungry  _ hungry? ‘Cause if you’re cool with me using your shower, I’m dropping by.” _

Oh.  _ Oh. _

Quinn pulse speeds up without his consent, and there’s no ignoring the way his mouth waters, a low coil of heat in his gut at just the thought of it. “Well, I mean, if you’re offering. Who am I to turn down a free meal?”

A low chuckle sounds over the phone, and a zing of thrill and delight zips up Quinn’s spine.  _ “Some standards you got, sweetheart. I’ll be there in five.” _

The call ends, and Quinn finds his gut in a mixed coil of eager heat and an everflow of warmth — the first understandable, the second terrifying in its own right.

It’s been a few weeks since the first time  _ that _ happened. Since Quinn had called in the favour, called in Eliot to be a quick meal, that ended up with Eliot being shirtless and frustratingly gorgeous in Quinn’s tiny bathroom, all thick muscle and blue eyes and the smirk Quinn wants to punch and kiss right off his stupid, hot face. A few weeks since Quinn felt his heartbeat like thunder in his ears as he pressed his mouth to the fever-warm of Eliot’s bare skin, tongue lathed on the cord of his throat like it’d be the last meal he’d ever get to consume, and then pressed his teeth in, in,  _ in. _

And, god. Quinn can still taste it. From the second his teeth pierced flesh, Quinn’d known he wouldn’t be able to forget it. The blood that runs hotter than a normal human’s, a little more bitter and complex and almost spicy on the tongue, and the sudden flood of the unmistakable taste of  _ lust _ that filled Quinn’s mouth with liquid ecstasy. He can still feel it, can feel himself stirring in his fucking jeans at the memory of it, that  _ taste, _ that hot blood with the tinge of ash and arousal,  _ fuck. _

And then. Well. There’s no forgetting what happened afterwards. Quinn’d been so overwhelmed he didn’t even realize he’d dropped to his knees until they’d hit the floor, and then it only made sense for him to take Eliot in his mouth in a different way.

It’s been a few weeks. Since they’d done that, since Quinn had eaten Eliot’s choux pastry after (which tasted better than it looked, not that anything could taste even a fraction as good as what Quinn had tasted in that bathroom), since Eliot had asked him and Quinn, on a post-orgasm and post-feeding high, had said  _ yes _ and pressed his mouth against the tender flesh of Eliot’s wrist like a promise —

They’ve met up in the meantime, yeah. Not in the same way, even though they’ve been eating — lunches, dinners, and for a lack of a better word, dates. Quinn hasn’t pressed his teeth against the pulse of Eliot’s throat since that first time, but somehow he gets the same warm feeling running down his ribcage whenever Eliot laughs and smiles and shakes his hair like the secretly preppy bastard he is. It’s fucking terrifying actually, because even without the heat of the moment and blood on his tongue and Eliot groaning his name like a prayer that’d singe on Quinn’s skin, none of it is ever bad or boring.

It’s been  _ good,  _ actually. It’s better than good. It’s been fucking amazing and Quinn doesn’t like thinking too hard about it, because if he does it’ll become more than just something casual, more than just a mutual good time. It’ll start to  _ mean _ something. Quinn doesn’t have time for that — there’s no time for feelings when he’s always on the run from something. And while Quinn has the nagging suspicion that Eliot knows this, had known from the beginning and is purposely not putting a name to them beyond just having a  _ thing  _ so he doesn’t spook Quinn off like an emotionally stunted deer in the headlights _ , _ Quinn doesn’t want to confront it yet. 

Quinn’s good with it just being a  _ thing, _ it’s already a huge step at all for him to admit it even being a  _ thing, _ and Eliot seems to be happy with it too, so why complicate things? Everything else in their lives is complicated and messy and bloody, why do they have to do the same to each other?

_ The only thing I want messy and bloody is us in the bedroom, _ Quinn decides, and promptly puts the thought into a mental vault he’s lovingly labelled For When You’re Dying. And then he replaces it with wondering if he still has lube stocked up somewhere in his apartment. The sound of the doorbell not even a minute later covers up the sound of what has to be a finger on the monkey’s paw curling inwards, Quinn’s sure, because he opens the door and feels any trace of arousal and heat disappear in an instant.

“Hey,” Eliot says, smiling sheepishly in Quinn’s doorway, covered head to toe in scuffs and  _ blood,  _ right eye sealed over with how much of it is running from a gash in his brow. He looks like he’d made a dramatic re-enactment of Carrie in an alleyway on a cheap, violent budget. “... You hungry?”

Quinn replies by grabbing him by the shirt collar and yanking him inside.

* * *

“... And I mean, I figured since you were close by and I was already bleeding, and you said you hadn’t fed in weeks —  _ ow, _ fuck! Hey!”

Quinn eases up on where he’d  _ may _ have pressed a little too hard against the wound above Eliot’s eye to disinfect it, even though Quinn’s not sorry about it at all. Eliot’s battered and bruised all over, with multiple stab wounds and a bullet-sized hole in his gut. If the man can walk off all of that (in no small part due to the fact he’s a hellhound and could probably survive being run over by a tank) and then decide to come to Quinn instead of a fucking hospital, he should be fine.  _ Quinn’s _ the one who nearly died a second time over seeing Eliot covered in that much blood, even if he knows  _ now _ that most of it isn’t Eliot’s. Quinn’s allowed to be pissed. Eliot doesn’t deserve Quinn’s pity.

It’s a fucking shame that the way Eliot looks — genuinely sorry, sheepish, and altogether too soft for a man with open wounds and isn’t even human — makes Quinn’s heart betray him anyway.

“Oh, Eliot,” Quinn sighs, finally, simultaneously sad and angry and flayed open with relief, “Not like this, you stupid emo bastard.”

“... I also just wanted to see you,” Eliot murmurs, apologetic and too  _ sincere _ in a way that makes Quinn want to hold him softly and strangle him in equal measure, and.

Eliot’s eyes are unfairly blue as they peer up at Quinn’s, clear now without the blood running down the right. It takes Quinn’s breath away, makes it feel like the floor’s been pulled out from under him and now he’s freefalling. The hand that’s wiping away the blood on Eliot’s brow pauses as Eliot touches it slowly, softly, and then moves Quinn’s hand down to his mouth. There’s a bloodied hand towel bundled in that one, so Eliot’s mouth moves to kiss softly at the inside of Quinn’s wrist instead. It’s so gentle, the barest flutter of lips and breath against Quinn’s pulse. Quinn feels it like a sledgehammer, like a car crash, shattering away the fragile anger he had until he’s got no choice left but to forgive him. No choice left but to lean down, and kiss him.

* * *

They  _ do _ get to eat in the end. Not in the way Quinn’d thought they would tonight, but not in any way that Quinn’s complaining about either. 

Turns out Eliot’s as resourceful as he ever is, and he’d whipped up the frozen burger patties in Quinn’s fridge into something damn near gourmet. Paired with the beers Quinn keeps perpetually stocked in his fridge and the hockey game on TV, it’s actually pretty damn nice. As always.

A part of Quinn is starting to paw at the mental vault in his brain he’s been trying not to look at. He knows he’ll have to face it, eventually, but he doesn’t want to, not yet — even though it’s hard to ignore, not with Eliot sitting right beside him, warm thigh to warm thigh, brow furrowed and scowling at the TV where his favourite player’s just been knocked down to the ice. His hair’s tied half-up, his collarbone is bruised, and there’s a cut on the corner of his mouth that’s reopened while they were eating. It splits a little when he yells at the TV as if the refs can hear him. It’s so mundane, and Quinn finds himself wanting it more and more.

“Eliot,” Quinn says, and hates how soft his voice sounds, “Your mouth, man.”

Eliot blinks at him, turning briefly away from the screen. Just the way he glimpses at Quinn — his full attention, just like that, turned to Quinn like a flower to the sun — makes Quinn’s undead fucking heart tremble. And then Eliot’s touching a finger to his mouth, and pulls it away slightly bloody.

“Shit,” Eliot says, frowning at it. “Well, whatever, it’s not gonna kill me. I —”

Quinn kisses him. 

It barely takes half a beat before Eliot’s kissing him back.

Quinn doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to think about how scared he was when he opened that door and saw Eliot like that, doesn’t want to think about how kissing him now and feeling his lips and tongue against his own feels like balm on his fucking soul. Quinn doesn’t like thinking about feelings, because right now it’s too much and too complex and too simple for him to face, so — he’s just going to not think about it, and go with his gut, and do what feels good. And what feels good right now is the feeling of Eliot under his touch, running incredibly warm and incredibly solid, here and real and  _ okay, _ even if he is a dumbass.

When they part, Quinn leans in again just for a moment, to swipe at the corner of Eliot’s mouth with his tongue. The small tinge of blood is unmistakable — metallic, heavy and spicy, utterly delicious, and Quinn slowly realizes that he’d be happy even if he’d never taste it again. Just this is enough.

Eliot looks at him in equal parts slight wonder and amusement when Quinn finally leans back. Quinn promptly looks back to the TV, ignoring the way his cheeks heat, and says, “Vampire spit’s slightly antiseptic. You’re welcome.”

“... Wait, really?” When Quinn glances over, Eliot’s face has shifted into one of genuine confusion. And then it shifts slowly to a reddening face, eyes gazing into the coffee table as he recalls a memory Quinn’s willing to bet is singed in his own mind too, and it makes Quinn smirk.

“Yeah,” Quinn grins, gazing at the spot on Eliot’s neck where Quinn had pierced with his fangs and lapped at with his tongue after feeding off of it, “But I mean, if it helps, you’re pretty delicious.”

Eliot’s face is deliciously red. And then his eyes narrow into something more determined, more heated, and his own smile crooks up in a way that makes Quinn’s pulse tick up.

“Y’know, I’m hurting all over still. Guess that fight was rougher than I thought.” Eliot says, eyes twinkling. “Mind kissing them better?”

Quinn doesn’t even have to think about it before he’s grinning and leaning back in.

**Author's Note:**

> can you believe this shit has a sequel now?? wild gb
> 
> written for my lovely [eliot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineProjectZero/pseuds/DivineProjectZero) who needs to straighten her back. yes, you, reading this. you also.


End file.
